


A Siren of Gods and Demigods

by baechi



Category: SKAM (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Greek Mythology, Alternate Universe - Historical, Bottom Isak, Intercrural Sex, M/M, Non-Canonical Character Death, Original Character(s), Top Even, because we're talking about kinky ancient greeks here hello??? wouldn't pass on the opportunity
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-12
Updated: 2018-01-12
Packaged: 2019-03-03 20:03:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,977
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13348518
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/baechi/pseuds/baechi
Summary: Isaak, the claimed demigod blessed upon Athens, holds the future of Athens' on his young palm with mortal blood under his skin and a war just beyond the gates of their capital. The problem is, he is not sure if he can.Enter the trusted messenger of Athens, Evangelos and a love story that could make Iliad jealous.“And if you do grace me with him, dear gods, I promise,I will tweak suns in the corners of his lips and find eclipses in the curl of his shy eyes,I will swim through the waves of his hair with my fingers, trace the intelligent head beneath,Kiss every corner and drink in his presence.But oh, dear gods, do not curse me with the pain you struck upon Acis, Pyramus or Hero,For I am merely a messenger of news, your faithful follower,And if you honour me with his health, a poor debtor.”





	A Siren of Gods and Demigods

**Author's Note:**

> Okay so, I legit do not have any excuses for this besides the fact that I cannot get over how dropdeadgorgeousfuck Isak looks in his Julias Ceasar costume with his wreath and Even rocking that god costume was the thing I needed to push myself for an alternative universe fic of Ancient Greek mythology.
> 
> This is just an early prologue and introduction to the settings of this alternative universe. Although I was inspired by Ancient Greece and their mythology most of the events/wars/ characters used in this fanfic is created by me. Please excuse my ignorance if I totally butcher the glorious universe of Greek mythology. I adore it and hope to do a fair job for Evak's lovely story and Greek literature which holds a dear place in my heart.
> 
> Names of Isak and Even are changed into Isaak and Evangelos respectively in order to preserve the geological authenticity of Ancient Greece. I tried Isak and Even but it's weird next to "Pantheras" and shit lmao.

[this](https://68.media.tumblr.com/9d6bd3feb7dd34bbef73d821343e068c/tumblr_ok1i7qdVP31vlgbnoo5_r1_400.gif) is my excuse.

 

 **PROLOGUE**  

 

_“…There is the heat of Love,_

_the pulsing rush of Longing,_

_the lover’s whisper, irresistible_

_—magic to make the sanest man go mad.”_

_― **Homer, The Iliad**_

 

 

On the shore of Mycenae, a crowd of grief dance with the flirtatious waves as wind _blows, blows, blows_. Evangelos looks ahead, cannot tear his eyes away as bodies stack over each other with no lingering vanity of men. The poets embrace death through melodious serenades and beautiful words but Evangelos cannot catch the grace in the stink of death. He looks ahead and desires to carve the image in his head so deep, it can stay under his eyelids when he goes to sleep tonight on top of the security of his bed. He should remember the dire stench up his nostrils on the battlefield, blood on his spear and sweat on his skin. _Do not die, not yet_.

 

Alcaeus, their commander on the battlefield, turns to him with leftover streams of woe in his navy eyes. His hand is heavy on his shoulder when he squeezes in a silent effort of comfort, it encourages a small step ahead towards the shore before he speaks.

 

“It’s your time, Evangelos, our blessed messenger from gods o'er. We need the blessing of Central and wise ones as we lay here bare, against the wrath of the mortal demon, Menelaus. We fear not as our spears still stand robust in our grip, our love for our motherland strong in our chests but the word of wise ones can ease our chests and have them breathe tomorrow.”

 

Evangelos nods with the breeze of another wave touching coast. “You think gods are wrathful towards us, my commander?”

 

Alcaeus turns his sad gaze upon the laps of fire eating some bodies away on the sand, remains silent for a moment. The messenger almost supposes his questions fell upon deaf ears until the commander utters, his voice barely loud enough to surf above a wave.

 

“I hope not, my son. For that would imply our bodies will be companions to our poor friends in the water by next full moon.”

 

Evangelos’ mouth opens for a word but he gapes instead at the thoughtful profile of his commander. The older man meets his gaze one final time, offers a smile and turns to leave him on the cliff of Mycenae with lifeless bodies of 1000 Athens.

 

  

 

 

The gates of Athens smells of ripe grapes and syrupy figs tickling humans’ gluttony, far from the salt of the sea and the composing bodies on the coastline. It’s a mirage of wealth, gold, glistening bodies pampered with aromatic oils and Evangelos finds himself blinking a couple of times to brush it off when the reality of a war just under his eyelids. He engraved it there, he made sure of it.

 

The Central’s chaotic streets hosts crowds of entertainers in the corner, a group of curious children peeking over each other’s heads for a sight of a show when mothers balance fresh herbs, infants and chatters with friends under their maternal charisma. The sellers shout to appeal interested passers-by, charming them with bargain exchanges and silver-tongued verses.  The messenger glances idly and elbows his way through the crowd, his steps habitual and calculating throughout the alleyways of Athens. It’s a messenger’s expertise to memorise cities and carry the whispered words in mouths into the ears of imperative parties. Evangelos was born to be one, taken from the crib of his perishing mother to the welcoming hug of another solitary soul of a messenger who wished to entrust his duties on the youthful shoulders of a son. 

 

So, when a group of Athenians circle around a young boy clothed in expensive white and stone jewellery, he recognises the premature tales of a young messenger and heeds. The young boy appears straight out of the corridors of Agora, Evangelos’ ultimate destination so he concludes a prior examination over the current temperature in the debate room of council can benefit his upper hand.

 

“The demigod arrived Agora in the companionship of Sophocles, the poet! They cry his little fist wrapped around an atrocious snake when his mouth still had the first gulps of his mother’s milk. They say Sophocles raised him under his wing in secrecy when gods whispered promises of good fortune upon Athens and the council-“

 

“The council! Who cares about those old men, fool boy, tell us about our half-god, whisper his name to us so that our prayers praise his name and harbour the favour of our gods!” rebukes an elderly woman with annoyance while her fragile body rocks from one foot the other, her wrinkles compressed around the poverty in her words.

 

“Pray tell, when is the celebration in favour of our half-god?” Another woman in her more youthful years probes after a hurried adjustment of some vegetables against her hip.

 

“Is it assured that he inherited the grace of our gods? Speak quick and loud, boy, for we are all poor curious souls with our faith solid and devoted to skies!”

 

The boy smiles, proud and juvenile. Evangelos knows the taste of gratification of good news against the corner of his mouth, itching and sculpting his expression into a similar leer. “I saw with my two eyes, my prised brothers and sisters. He walks with the grace only gods would occupy during their strides across clouds, his eyes shine green like his noble father. I have no doubt his blood drips scarlet like his mortal mother but he holds the holy essence of his father.”

 

“Oh, our dear gods-!”

 

“You blessed us with this great news, my child!”

 

“His name, boy, what’s the name of our noble half-god?!”

 

Evangelos pries himself to walk forward and away from the gathering crowd around the circle once he takes notice of Agora’s lofty pillars under the sinking sun and primary suggestions of its lover ahead, a crescent moon in blushing sky. _By next full moon_ , his commander reminds him in a scolding tone, while brine plagues the deceased on the shore.

 

“All hail, Isaak, our divine half-god on this temporal earth!”

  
“All hail, Isaak!” The crowd shouts in one mouth behind his strongminded footsteps, and under the unknown warning on the sky counting down the collapse of their city. Cheers echo throughout the towering walls of their city –their cries are brewed in faithful chests, above the brave guts of Athens. Evangelos fathoms in woe that it reminds him of battlefields with clashing weapons and pierced bodies.

 

As they cry “All hail, our gods! We entrust our frail bodies in your generous watch!” with faith in their chest and bravery in their gut.

 

  

 

 

Water trickles over the contours of a stone fountain at the centre of Agora, joining the conversation of students and the rustle of their parchments on the steps of the council. They study the knowledge Evangelos does not know, will perhaps never know but they will not know the information the messenger carries through cities and mountains, under the safe seal of his tongue against the roof of his mouth, at the rear of the private blinks of his eyes that watches over the chief occurrences that shape the prospect of their capital.

 

“Messenger,” a guard calls out below a helmet, his voice as cold as the metal around his head.

 

Evangelos follows the man’s loud steps with his head held high, sunset peeping and pirouetting on his skin amid columns. He stops at the big gate of the Council and watches the muscles of guards’ arms as they shift and lurch against the secure weight of the door. The air beyond is more saccharine than the summer weather outside, layered with scented oils, parchments, fruits and wines. Gold shines proudly on white garments and aged physiques. The messenger walks under the curious watch of the council and stops at the centre of their circle where a hint of whispers echo through the walls the loudest. He looks ahead at no one in particular, his gaze lays somewhere between two old men with brushed, curly beards as he talks.

 

“I come before you, a humble messenger with grave news from our great commander, Alcaeus!” Evangelos pauses to brace the weight of his words, allowing his syllables ricochet into tired ears. “1000 Athens joined the benevolence of Hades in Mycenae, may their spirits find harmony in the Underworld. The enemy withdrew but commander Alcaeus swears it’s not in compliance but a warning for their next raid for not the coastline but our heart, our core Athens.”

 

The syrupy air in the room shifts and becomes unbearably heavy under noses. No one dares a shift in a ligament of their body for a moment or two before a voice rises, rich and heavy-handed.  It’s the councilman ahead of Evangelos; a sturdy man despite the maturing creases around his grey eyes and engraved scowl at the sides of his mouth.

 

“And when do we expect their return, messenger?”

 

The messenger frowns. “I’m afraid it's by next full moon, wise one. Their army is hungry for blood and gore and the sea…” There’s the sour taste of hesitation on his tongue so he lowers his head, baring his nape in unvoiced apology for the ring of knowledgeable intellects and their gods. “We’re afraid that Poseidon has left our side, wise one. The sea carries them into our shores with a wind of victory, swallows our men’s bodies in angry waves. I came here to your kind presence to hear your valued judgement concerning the wrath of our dear god, Poseidon.”

 

The chattering around him becomes _louder, louder, louder_ before he even finishes his words. Eyes dissect him under the tall ceiling of Agora, scrutinizing and nervous while they lean over each other for hushed whispers. Evangelos blinks several times, completely lost in front of their reaction. The wise ones, with their unlimited knowledge and years of commitment, look scared of him. Terrified.

 

The messenger frowns and glances around now with no need to hide the action. It’s not him under their nervous glances, he belatedly notices. It’s behind him, the source of their fear and anxiety. Evangelos is more cautious in the twist of his body now, most definitely affected by the possibility of what could terrify the base minds of their capital. He turns around slowly, his eyes searching for an unfamiliar splash of something. Then he sees _him_.

 

The leftover rays of sunset touch only him in the room through the open border of the windows, bathing him in gold and orange and beauty, a glow of adolescence on his skin. He sits still with his posture immaculate and imperial, white drapes beautifully over the boyish contours of his chest and gold laurel wreath plays peekaboo between curls of brown on the crown of his head. He looks like a timeless statue in their temple, frozen in youth and otherworldly splendour. But raw emotions of a human sits on the petulant pout of his lips like that of a child, despite the mature weight of his green eyes. Green waves of Mycenae wash and lick at Evangelos’ ear, but the stink of dead doesn’t follow. It’s the green blanket of the sea ahead.

 

Poseidon’s green eyes flashed with anger at Odysseus, his old master messenger told him at bedtime. His green eyes had the temper of angry seas with bottomless depth.

 

“Our humble and gracious demigod, Isaak.” The same rich voice of the wise one cried. “The son of Poseidon, be our light in this darkness that surrounds the future of our capital and lead us to the favour of your father.”

 

“All hail, Isaak, the son of Poseidon and the gift to our frail capital!”

 

They all cry in one mouth to shadow the old man’s words. With the heavy chests and scared guts.

 

 


End file.
